


Song of the Seraphim

by J3 (CaseMatthews)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Beta Wanted, Destiel - Freeform, Forced Prostitution, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:16:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1646669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaseMatthews/pseuds/J3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his village is burnt to the ground, Castiel is taken to the Capital to become a Seraphim; the most prestigious, beautiful people money can buy.</p><p>Dean watched as Castiel was taken, and he vows to find the Novak boy, no matter what it takes. No matter where it leads him.</p><p>Explicit in later chapters.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do I Stay Or Do I Go?

**Author's Note:**

> I actually quite like this story, and would love people's ideas on where it could go. I should be continuing others, but this was ingrained in my head and had to come out, so here it is.
> 
> Song for this fic: Lewis Watson - Stay

**Four years ago…**

“Castiel!”

Dean.

Castiel's already smiling when he looks up, abandoning the book propped up steady on his lap. And sure enough, the eldest Winchester comes bounding towards him across the field spanning the decent distance from the village and the forest, Gabriel’s new soccer ball ( _the one Anna reluctantly bought him as down-payment for a batch of her big-brother's honoured almond laced cookies_ ) balanced skilfully between his feet. He closes the distance in no time at all, and in seconds he’s stood bare metres away, hunched over himself in attempt to catch his breath. Castiel grins up smugly at a red faced Dean.

“Yo, Cas, come play with me,” he heaves, standing up with apparent effort, balancing a hand against his back like an old man. And even playing by himself, he’s impossibly managed to gain two new rips in the knees of his jeans, grass stained and muddy. Mary’s definitely going to kill him. “You can’t stay here all day, dude.”

“I’m pretty sure I can,” Castiel says happily, shielding his eyes casually from the afternoon sun. “It’s hot, I’m not galloping around like an animal just to get all sweaty and gross.”

“You calling me an animal, pipsqueak?”

And in just about two seconds flat, Dean’s on him, sweat damp t-shirt crushed against Castiel's clean button-down, wrestling him away from the safety of the tree against his back and shoving him haphazardly straight into the dirt. Castiel, caught unawares, whines at the _total_ unfairness of the attack and thumps a few fists at Dean’s chest, the attempt turning futile when the older boy pins him down with little to no effort whatsoever. He'll deny it to his early grave, but it makes Castiel’s heart race at the notion.

“For goodness sake, Dean, get _off_!”

Dean grins  _that_ grin and catches both of Castiel's flailing wrists in one hand before locking them on the ground above his head, keeping him completely flushed and stuck to the dirt with his hips nestled stubbornly against his stomach. Castiel huffs.

"Problem?" he asks in completely fake sincerity. "Aw, come on, Cas, you can do better than that, buddy." _Patronising ass_. He lowers his perfectly free hand to Castiel's shirt and tugs it lower to cover his stomach from where it ruched up in the struggle, his perfect fingers brushing against the flushed skin. Castiel shivers at the touch and rolls his eyes. "Besides, I'm just a mindless animal, right? Well, I got news for you kiddo," he leans in close, Castiel can feel his breath brush his ear, "Animals don't play nice. We play dirty."

His hips flex over Castiel's and bullshit if the bastard doesn't know exactly what he's doing.

“Dean,” he growls, wiggling somewhat halfheartedly in the eighteen year old's iron grip. Dean doesn’t even move an inch, just leers over at Castiel and grins. “Seriously, Dean, get the hell off," he takes a glance over at his discarded, now closed book and snarls, "Damnit, I lost the page now, for Christ's sake, I'm reading it for school-"

Dean feigns surprise and claps a hand over Castiel's mouth. It's warm and strong, slightly damp from the running, but perfect all the same. “Oh my goodness, Castiel! Whatever shall we do?” He lets go of Castiel’s hands, moves from him completely but sits all his weight back on Castiel’s pelvis, earning himself a strained, whine-type noise. He laughs at at his own joke. “You talk weird, dude, anyone ever tell you that?”

“You, actually,” Castiel grumbles. “All the time.”

“Yo, Dean! Quit molesting my brother, will ya?”

They both turn around at the new voice and meet Gabriel, waltzing towards them, still dressed in his work apron. Castiel wonders why he even leaves the bakery wearing the thing, if all anyone’s going to do is mock him for it. Dean himself certainly can’t hold his taunts back,

“No offence, baker-boy, but I think baby Cassy here is a little young for me, whatever you might wish for us,” Dean turns his grin back to Castiel and, if it’s even possible, it grows. He winks when he says, “Right, Cas?”

Castiel feels his cheeks brighten and his crotch tighten against Dean. He scowls and this time shouts it, “Get _off_!”

But Dean just keeps on smiling and leans back against Castiel’s bent up knees, relaxing himself. Castiel wants to sob.

“Touchy, touchy, kiddo,” he mutters, and winks again.

“You’re a cruel man, Winchester,” Castiel’s brother says, plonking himself down on the only grass patch near them.

“So I’ve been told.”

“Asshole,” Castiel grumbles, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. The two older boys laugh at him, then look at each other, then dive in perfect unison towards Castiel, aiming straight for his sides and armpits. Fingers gouge into his flesh, digging at the sensitive parts until Castiel’s left a squirming, giggling little thirteen year old kid on the floor, pinned beneath his brother and his brother’s best friend. He feels like a moron, but he’s defenceless against their insistent attack. He laughs because it tickles, not because he finds it anywhere near funny.

Castiel sees his eldest brother before he hears him, and he pushes at the hands on his body.

Michael’s running towards them with a stern expression, Sam latched onto his back with tear streaked eyes.

“Get off, get off!” Castiel cries, shoving harshly at their hands, and they seem to realise he’s completely serious, because they let up enough for Castiel to wriggle out from under them and stand on unsteady feet.

“Go!” Michael’s shouting, and they can only just hear him from the distance between them all, but they don’t move. He keeps shouting it, a rhythm of warning as he gains on them, Sam bouncing on his back, his own sobs heightening in volume. “Go, run, go, go!”

“Sammy?” Dean says, standing beside Castiel now, vast inches above him. His face pinches in concern.

By the time Michael reaches them, they begin to see the smoke. It starts as a short pillar, reaching above the squat buildings of their village and drifting calmly into the smooth blue sky, almost like the small bonfire they set on November 5th. But then more pillars join the first and it begins to meet in the air, creating a sort of blanket over their little town. Castiel feels his heart begin to race just as Michael meets them.

“What did I say?” he shouts, but no one moves. Castiel feels Gabriel and Dean’s eyes rise with his and narrow in on the black plumes. Sam drops to the ground beside them and throws himself at Dean, nuzzling into his stomach, his fingers making permanent indents into his shirt. Only then does Dean seem to snap out of it, and he drops to the floor on his knees to look into Sam’s eyes.

Castiel looks to Michael.

“What’s happening?” he whispers.

“We need to run,” Michael says, fingers sweeping over his hair, spinning on the spot as he thinks. “We can go to the next village, though it might already be taken. We could hide out in the forest until they leave, it’s summer we’ll be warm enough for the time being and I bet we could find fruit and animals to live off for a little while…”

“Michael!” Gabriel says, grabbing onto their brothers shoulders and holding him still. “What is happening?”

Michael looks sternly down the few inches he has on him at Gabriel. “The village is under siege. You see the smoke? Everything’s on fire, our homes, our shops, your precious bakery. The people out alive will be taken away and the ones still inside are dead. Do you hear me, Gabriel? People are _dead_.”

The air is still for a few tense moments, only punctured by Sam’s sobs. No one moves though, except for Dean’s hand running rhythmically over Sam’s messy hair, soothing those racking noises. The others apparently can’t find it in themselves to cry. It happened too quickly for anything like that, and they all just stare, in a daze, at the thick and rising cover of darkness in the high-sun sky.

“We need to move.” It’s Michael that speaks first, already shoving forwards with his hands on Gabriel and Castiel’s shoulders. They move without thinking about it.

“What about our families?” Dean asks. Of course it’s Dean.

“They’re gone,” Michael says, without stopping, and only when he realises the Winchesters haven’t moved an inch, does he turn begrudgingly back. He levels a look at Dean. “There’s nothing you can do now, Dean. If they’re alive, they’re alive, if not, then they don’t have to endure watching their homes burn down.” He sighs when he sees Sam’s face. “The last I saw of Mary, she was in the bakery, okay? She’ll have gotten out, I promise. Your mom’s fine. But right now, Sam is your biggest concern. You want him to live, don’t you?” Dean nods numbly. “Of course you do. And you know what happens when villagers are taken by the capital, right?” Another nod. “Right. So we need to go. Now.”

All five of them move forward with a robotic strength, Michael a sturdy presence between Gabriel and Castiel, a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Dean moves with Sam’s hand in his, whispering soft reassurances as they gain on the woods. It’s not too far, they could get there easily if…

“Look, there’s more over here!”

All five heads swing round and see three men, dressed in the uniform blue of the capital, begin to leg it directly towards them. Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever run so hard in his life. Michael drags him along with his fingers tucked into Castiel’s shirt, Castiel sees Dean haul Sam into a piggy back carry and they all run at the same terrified speed towards the forest.

Then Michael’s hand leaves Castiel’s shoulder to concentrate further on running and seeking out somewhere to hide. Castiel feels his face pull into a determined pout as he pumps at his legs, keeping speed with the older boys as they move like water from their impending fates.

And of course, because everything always tends to be messed up by Castiel, it’s Castiel who ruins it for them. He’s moving faster than his thirteen year old body should let him, his legs are a blur beneath him, he doesn’t know where he’s going, and he trips on a branch. He feels himself falling and he’s helpless to stop it. And when his head connects with the ground, he doesn’t cry out, because he can’t. He can’t, because his mouth tastes like blood and his eyes won’t focus and he doesn’t know what’s happening. It isn’t until he pulls his head to move on his suddenly tender neck, catches three figures disappearing into the woods, feels rough hands at his back and something cold and hard close over both his wrists that he realises they left him behind. They left him. And now, _they_ have him.

\----

“We can’t leave him!”

Michael’s hand is a root on Dean’s wrist, so tight and unyielding, Dean’s afraid his hand might pop off if he squeezes any tighter. He doesn’t care. He would run with four bloody stumps to get to Castiel, rather than leave him on his own to fend for himself with those brutes. Castiel, the kid; Castiel, the dorky little brother of his best friend, the one that reads too much and has a total crush on him. The one too goddamn innocent and naïve to hack it in the world of the Capital. And Dean won’t let him, not alone.

“Dean,” Michael hisses, adding an extra hand into the equation. The fucking welder has power over Dean that he’s never witnessed before, but with those hands enclosed over his body, he can feel it. And it dawns on him that he isn’t going anywhere. Castiel is, Castiel the kid is about to become some posh bastards _slave_ and his own brother doesn’t even give a shit. “Shut _up_.”

Fuck that. Dean will not shut up, let them find him, let them come, he’ll kill them all. Kill them all for ever laying a hand on Cas-

A hand clamps down over his mouth and it takes a second for Dean to register who it is. _Gabriel_. Fucking Gabriel, big brother of the year, is just sitting there as his brother gets hauled off to some whorehouse. He’s thirteen for god’s sake, one freaking year older than little Sammy.

“He’s your _brother_ ,” he sobs, but his voice is muffled. He thinks Gabriel can hear him anyway, by the look suddenly taking over his stubborn face, flitting into something raw and guilty, but only for a second until Michael eyes him.

“You don’t think we know that, Dean?” Michael sighs, already subdued to the matter, even though if he looked behind Dean, behind the huge oak they’re cowering behind, they could see an incoherent, wailing Castiel being dragged off by the capital bastards. Dean finds it ironic that now he’s the one pinned helplessly when not even ten minutes earlier, Castiel was fragile beneath him. He feels guilty for teasing him on purpose, reveling in flushing his cheeks. He misses the kid already. “We practically raised him, Dean, don’t you dare get all high and mighty with us. He’s alive, and it’s all we can to hope he stays that way. But right now, I need to ensure Gabriel, Sam and you are all safe and away, so then at least someone from our village is still alive and free, alright?”

It’s not alright, not at all, not one tiny ounce of anything that’s happening is alright. But Dean nods because, right now, there’s nothing he can do. If he tries to run, Michael will keep him back and he can’t leave Sammy alone, not right now. If he screams, tells them where they are, they’ll all be taken and Sam would be taken away from him. Michaels’ right with one thing; Sam needs to be safe. But as for everything else, Michael can go fuck himself.

When Gabriel’s hand leaves his mouth slowly and tentatively, Dean jerks his head away and snarls at him. Fucking traitor. If it were Sam out there, Dean’d right beside him all the way. Because that’s what brothers _do_. And if Castiel’s are complete bastards, then it’s up to Dean.

“I’ll find him. Hear me now, you pathetic pieces of shit, I _will_ find him.” And Dean will. However long it takes, whatever it takes, Dean will find him.

Gabriel blinks. “I know, Dean. I hope you do.”

“Ah, leave ‘em. We got one, right?” The capital accent drifts from across the yard. “Pretty little thing he is, too. How much d’you reckon we can flog him for, huh? Two hundred, three? Bet Naomi’d pay a pretty penny for him, eyes like the ocean, he has. Make a fortune as a seraphim.”

A seraphim. They’re gonna sell sweet little Castiel off as a _prostitute_. Dean hunches over and throws up the rest of his apple pie.

 _No matter what it takes, Castiel_ , he vows, closing his eyes. _I’ll save you_.

\----

Seraphim.

Castiel’s heard the term before, but he doesn’t know what it entails. He tries to think, tries to remember as they haul him to his feet and leverage him there, trudging off towards the burnt remains of his home. He lets them take the brunt, doesn’t even try to fight, just lets his trainers drag on the floor because he doesn’t care, not now. Dean doesn’t care, his _brothers_ don’t care, why the hell should he? Castiel will be dragged off to the capital and Michael was so adamant to take Dean along and keep Sam safe, he forgot about his own brother. And Castiel doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what capital people do to villagers, but he figures it has something to do with the seraphim. God, he wishes he remembers what that was.

The village is charred. There’s no other word for it, besides _ruined_ or maybe _dead_. Castiel recognises his favourite buildings only because after thirteen years in this place, he could navigate blindfolded; he certainly can’t tell from the blackened woodwork.

He’s dragged into a clearing, one filled with about half of his people, all kneeled down, hands propped on their heads. He’s shoved down beside them and looks up just in time to see a gun trained to his face. He doesn’t even care.

“Castiel,” he hears, murmured from maybe a few metres away. He looks up and around, focusing his swimming eyes to a tall figure, blonde hair, familiar, ice blue eyes.

Lucifer.

Why the hell is his brother back?

Castiel feels a boot collide with his back and he’s pushed forwards with a heavy grunt. He lands, sprawled on the ashy dry ground, splayed for the rest of his people and these others to see, hands still tight behind his back in the cuffs. He looks pathetic, he knows. He doesn’t care.

“You know this one?” the voice, another voice from back at the field, asks, toeing the rubber of his sole against Castiel’s calf.

Castiel looks up, meets his mother’s inherited eyes, his father’s inherited hair and squints at his big brother. The same big brother that should be away in the military, that shouldn’t be back here because he made his choice and now he’s not allowed. Castiel was sad to see him go. He’s relieved to see him back. But then the blue, immaculate uniform floats into view and everything else slots into place.

“Lucifer?” Castiel asks, pulling his heavy legs back under him, rising to meet with his brother. Right now, Castiel knows what Lucifer has done, he doesn’t know why, but that doesn’t matter. Lucifer is Castiel’s brother, and even if Michael and Gabriel don’t care, Lucifer will. Lucifer used to dote on Castiel like a son, he would never do anything except…

“No.”

“You don’t know him? You sure? He seems to know you, _Lucifer_.” Castiel didn’t notice it before, but he does now. His brother’s stone expression, the man’s teasing voice, the tenseness surrounding him. Castiel stares up with pleading eyes.

“Luce…please, please, they’ll take me away, you have to help me,” Castiel cries, the tears finally leaking his cheeks, he crawls forward on his knees and nuzzles at his brothers feet like a child, but he doesn’t care. He needs Lucifer, he needs him. He’ll die without him, he knows. But Lucifer doesn’t move.

“Luce, eh?” the voice says, and Lucifer’s eyes leave Castiel to focus on the holder of the voice. His eyes narrow. “How quaint, boys, huh?”

An echo of laughter sounds, but Castiel doesn’t see it happen. He buries his face into Lucifer’s stark, pressed military trousers. And when Lucifer begins to bend, when his knee starts to make its way towards Castiel, Castiel darts back to meet with those eyes again, the same eyes he hasn’t met for years. They’re colder than he remembers.

“ _Listen_ ,” Lucifer hisses, his hand coming up and clutching Castiel’s chin, clawed into his flesh painfully as his nose moves to a millimetre away. “You do _not_ address me, do you understand? You are _nothing_ to me, you pathetic little sap.” Castiel stops breathing. “You will not look into my eyes and you _do not_ speak to me, do I make myself clear?”

“Lucifer…” Castiel voice is barely even a whisper, but he’s thrown straight into the hard ground anyway. He doesn’t look up when he sees the shadow above him and he wants to cover his face with his hands but he can’t.

“What did I just say?”

“You _bastard_.”

Castiel doesn’t look up at the voice, but he knows who it belongs to. Mary Winchester, surrogate mother to every single one of the Novak children, stands up for any one of them, in the right or in the wrong. She stood beside Lucifer, when he decided he was leaving for the capital army, even when her own husband was so opposed to it. She helped Michael raise Castiel and Anna, helped Castiel start to walk when his mother died and his father ran. She taught Anna how to be a woman. She’s the mother to _Dean_.

“What did you just say to him?” The sarcastic voice says, and Castiel hears footsteps move away from him and gain on someone to his left. He should speak up and distract them, but Lucifer’s shadow is still pinning him to the floor, so he doesn’t move even an inch.

“He’s your brother, Lucifer! Look at him. He’s terrified and alone, he _needs_ you. Please don’t do-”

Her voice is cut off with a scurry of motion and people around cry out. A choking sound moves through the small crowd and finally, the shadow moves and Castiel is free again. He doesn’t move.

“Prove to us, once and for all, Lucifer Novak, that you are no longer a member of this little shithole. You prove to us, right here, right now, that you belong. Kill this _bitch_ , boy.”

Castiel hears a gun click, hears a few timid whispers, feels a soft hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t react. He should leap into action, be the hero, save the life of the most important woman he’s ever met, but he doesn’t. He stays on the ground with the nice hand stroking over him and listens to his own brother kill her. He doesn’t even cry.

Everything else that happens in the next few minutes goes by in a blur. Castiel feels the soft pressure rip from his skin, along with the metallic cuffs, feels strong hands drag him up and away, but he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t look for Anna, he doesn’t watch as Mary’s blood drains from her body, doesn’t see Lucifer’s face when he drags him to the van. He climbs in the back and crawls to the corner, but he doesn’t look who else is in there with him. He feels a few presences, but then the doors close and someone hits the metal wall, and they’re off.

About twenty minutes in, he smells Anna’s perfume and feels her nudge up beside him. Ten minutes after that, they’re so close to each other they could be inside one another, nuzzled into the others skin and staying there, happy and finally calm.

“Are Gabriel and Michael alive?” he hears her ask.

He nods. “They left me.”

“Shshsh, Castiel,” she coos, pulling his head into her chest. It’s only then he realises his eyes are watering, but he’s not crying. He doesn’t have it in him to cry, not now. “It’s okay. We’re together.”

They drive on for what feels like days, and when the van pulls up and the doors open with a loud and distracting groan, it’s night outside. And then the navy sky is obscured by a woman in a pantsuit, hands behind her back, sharp eyes narrowing on the children in the back of the van. Anna pulls Castiel closer.

“Nice little collection, don’t you think Naomi?” One of the uniforms say.

Pantsuit lady clicks her tongue and points into the van bed, eyes slanted and considering. It takes Castiel a few more seconds and Anna’s surprised hiss to realise she’s pointing at him.

“That one, blue eyes, black hair. But that’s it, you can take the others.” She shakes her head at him and tuts again, beckoning with her hand. “Come on, boy, we don’t have all day.”

In the end it takes two guards to pry Anna off of him and another just to get him out of the car. He notices idly that it isn’t Lucifer. And when the van turns into two dots of scarlet tint the darkness, Castiel realises just how numb he is. And just how screwed.


	2. Welcome to Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this whole thing in one day in the middle of exam month. Awesome. 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr--- http://one-life-should-be-enough.tumblr.com/

**Now**

Castiel can’t remember the last time he woke up having not dreamt about the village.

Or, more like, what was left of the village. More times than one, he’d find himself wondering what had happened to his brothers, whether they’re still alive, if Dean’s still with them or if he split off with Sammy. Castiel wonders how Sam’s fairing as a teenager. Sam was - and probably still is - a very smart kid. Castiel would love to have a real conversation with him, now they’re both closer to adults and no longer pre-pubescent.

But Castiel, no matter the ache in his chest for his best friends and brothers, would die if they saw him like this. They teased him before, for being clean and tidy, for liking his clothes to look neat. They’d simply howl at what he’s become, what he was made to turn into. He’s a Barbie doll now, nothing more than a Ken with smooth skin and soft muscles, perfect hair and even brighter blue eyes. He’s unnaturally good-looking, he knows now. He’s a statue of the ideal man; the ideal _teenager_ , and people pay for him to look good and be good. And he’s spent enough years as a seraph to know that.

He’ll be eighteen in a few months.

He’ll be pawned off to the highest bidder for his virginity, and he’ll be a real seraphim. He supposes the idea is supposed to make him feel good, to spur him on, but he’s dreading it. Balthazar once said his first time hurt “like a fucking bitch”, and now Castiel can’t rid the notion. He hopes his winner is kind to him. He hopes he’s not like Crowley. Sometimes, he wonders if he might be lucky enough to get a woman, someone soft and sweet, but even if they weren’t, they couldn’t _enter_ him, which meant it couldn’t _hurt_. Meg says there are still ways, but Castiel doesn’t believe her. Meg just likes to tease because she’s Meg. She enjoys watching Castiel squirm.

Castiel lies in bed and waits for the inevitable knock at the door at precisely seven o’clock. He watches the hands tick by on the clock on his wall, counts down like he does every morning, and when the big hand touches down on twelve, Castiel hears the knock and rises. He pulls on the robe beside the bed (“royal blue, matches your skin, handsome,” Meg said), pushes his feet into his slippers and straightens his back before gliding to the door. If he’s caught skulking around, he’d get beaten, so he forces himself completely upright and moves with practiced grace towards the dining hall. He slides the door shut behind him.

Strawberries and blueberries with goat’s yoghurt and granola.

_If Dean saw him now, he’d never live it down…_

It’s one of those days, apparently. The kind of day when he’s buried deep in his own head and he forgets where he is and he slouches and he backtalk’s. He can already feel the lick of bamboo on his thighs.

“Good morning, Clarence,” Meg says, sliding into the seat beside him, her hand taking its resigned place high up on his thigh. Apparently, it’s her life mission to turn him on before he’s officially been with someone else, and it’s too late for her to play these games with him. But Castiel has not ever experienced an orgasm, nor does he plan to. Apparently, as a seraphim, one hopes to reach that point, hopes the man or woman they’re with allows them that relief, but Castiel can’t find it in himself to care. He just hopes it doesn’t hurt and that they’re quick about it.

Dean once asked him if he’d ever “jacked off” before. Castiel had blushed and leapt up to run away, but Dean had grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down beside him. He convinced him it was a normal thing to talk about, especially between guys, and Castiel believed him. He’d also confided that, no, he’d never had occasion to. He’d only been twelve, after all, what did he have to orgasm _to_? Castiel knew, but he wouldn’t tell Dean. So he lied through his teeth and said he didn’t find anyone in the village attractive enough to picture. And he didn’t like the idea of using Gabriel’s laptop for that sort of thing.

Dean had laughed and brushed it off, but Castiel had kept thinking. And at the end of his pondering period, he’d decided one thing; he would wait for Dean. It was stupid and naïve, he knows that all the better now, but back then, he didn’t have much of a libido to speak of, so he figured he could wait. He would wait for the man he loved. How ignorant he was. Dean didn’t care, and now Dean still doesn’t care, so why should he save himself? Well, it’s not exactly like he has a choice now anyway…

“Oh, Clarence?”

Castiel turns to Meg and replaces the spoon back in the bowl. It had been hovering in mid-air for God only knows how long, and oh, it will definitely be one of those days. Fantastic.

“Yes, Meg?” he asks, taking in a breath and starting back on his breakfast. If he doesn’t finish it all, they would reign the Spanish inquisition down on him, and right now he doesn’t have the patience.

Her hand begins stroking along the silk fabric, brushing it softly out the way to stretch her skin towards his own, but she doesn’t go all the way. She never does. She’s not allowed. It’s just one more teasing ritual that Castiel has learned to simply go along with.

“You seem distracted. Something wrong?” Up and up they travel, just skimming the line of his sleeping shorts, then gliding back down to his knee. Castiel feels safer in the fact that if they get caught, he won’t be the one being chastised. If Naomi catches Meg attempting to force Castiel erect, she will be mad, but Castiel doesn’t want to see Meg be punished. If forced to, he might call her his friend, if he had any here. At least she speaks to him, roaming fingertips or not.

“No, nothing’s wrong. I’m fine, thank you.” The words come out from years of practice, and Castiel knows Meg can tell that. He watches as she quirks an eyebrow.

“Will you tell me the truth, angel, hmm?” Past the shorts now, skimming his crotch. It’s a game that Castiel usually ends, but right now, he’s too out of it to even register the feather light touches over the silk-thin robe, over his penis. It’s not making any difference to his arousal.

“I was just remembering my old life,” he sighs, and Meg already knows that. Castiel doesn’t go all daze-eyed if he’s thinking about anything else. “My old friends, my family. I would like to know how they are, is all.”

“The same friends and brothers who left you behind? I thought you hated them?” Meg steals a blueberry from the yoghurt and pops it into her mouth.

Castiel has said that, and then some, especially when he first arrived. And sometimes, if things get bad, or if he gets punished, he does hate them. He curses Michael that he cared so much about the precious little Winchesters, but when his own brother was in need, he kept running and didn’t look back. He hates Gabriel for being such good friends with Dean and lying that no matter what happened, he would take care of Castiel, of his baby brother. Castiel can’t stand that Dean will never get to see him now, that he’ll always know Castiel as the dorky little kid he had to hang around with because he was the brother of his best friend. And Castiel can’t stand how jealous he is that Sam has a brother like Dean, one who cares and who would do just about anything for him. Castiel can’t even _think_ of Lucifer.

Castiel wants Dean, he wants Anna, he wants a lot of things. He knows it’s dumb, but he was raised as a free man. It’ll take a while for his desires to fully abate, and at least Meg understands that.

“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. The hand disappears altogether and Castiel kind of misses it. It was a comfort he doesn’t deserve, but it was nice, warm. Rare.

“I get it, baby, I do,” she croons, leaning her face in to nuzzle along his neck. Castiel feels a few pairs of bright eyes on them, and he doesn’t want Meg to get into trouble, so he says,

“Meg, you shouldn’t do that.”

She laughs and licks a long stripe all along his jawline to the lobe of his ear. “Let them try and stop me.” But she pulls back anyway.

“So, what’s your plan for today?” she asks, as if none of it ever happened. Castiel sighs.

“I’m not sure. I think Crowley said something about a private lesson, but that was a while ago. He might have forgotten.”

Meg scoffs. “Crowley doesn’t forget, sweetheart.”

“What does he mean by a private lesson?”

“With Crowley?” Meg asks, and Castiel nods. “Probably not something you’re gonna like, pretty boy. But, you’ll need to know it, so I guess it’s for the best.”

When she moves to stand up and leave, Castiel grabs at her arm and clutches at the leather there.

“What does it mean?” he asks, suddenly nervous. He’s never been alone with Crowley before, and although he doesn’t like the man, he’s never been very afraid of him. Until now, of course. He blinks up and feels his heart meet his throat.

“You know that’s not my place, kiddo,” she strokes the hand not currently held in Castiel’s along his cheek. “I’m just here to make sure you eat your greens.” And with that, she’s gone.

Castiel finishes his breakfast, takes the bowl to the counter, downs his daily glass of orange juice and scuttles off to his room to hide out. He doesn’t want to find out Crowley’s plan for him, and although this is probably the first place they’ll look, he feels almost safe here. But he’s not safe. He’s not safe anywhere, it doesn’t matter who it is teaching him, or who babysits him, or who takes him. He could run to Antarctica and still they would find him. He’s screwed, in more ways than one.

When the knock on the door sounds not even an hour later, Castiel jumps out of his skin.

“Castiel?”

Crowley. Damn it.

“Yes?” he asks, tentatively, like he’s been taught. It’s more instinct now, rather instantly obeying.

The door slides back and reveals the man in his black suit, one hand in his pocket, the other still on the doors edge. He smiles and Castiel nods his own greeting.

“Good morning, little Castiel,” he says, in his British accent, folding his arms and leaning on the doors frame.

“Good morning, sir,” Castiel replies. He rises off the bed and sinks neatly and swiftly to his knees, allowing one shoulder of his robes to slide slightly and reveal a patch of clean, porcelain skin. It’s demure and so well practiced, Castiel shouldn’t feel bad about doing it. But he does. He really does.

Crowley gives a slow, patronizing round of applause, whistling lowly as he takes Castiel in.

“Been practicing, have we?”

“Of course, sir,” Castiel agrees, bowing his head to show off his neck, to reveal just a hint of his tattoo at the collar. Crowley chuckles.

“You’re going to earn us a pretty little fortune, aren’t you, angel?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, he just stays stock still as he feels Crowley’s eyes rake his body.

“I’m sure you remember our little discussion last week?” Castiel nods. “And you know we only have two months until your debut date?” Another nod. “Well, then up, we have work to do.”

Castiel rises with the same amount of ease as he did to sink, seconds away from following Crowley like the good little puppy he is, but stops and looks back at his wardrobe.

“Uh, sir?”

Crowley pauses and looks back with one quirked eyebrow.

“Should I, uh, get dressed?”

Crowley appears as though he’s about to laugh, but he seems to notice the look on Castiel’s face as a completely serious one and stops himself. He sighs and Castiel frowns in confusion.

“You are an innocent being, aren’t you?” he says. “Castiel, this kind of education will not require clothes.” Oh. Oh. Castiel feels the blood drain from his face. “Now come along. No, keep the robe on, we can dispense of that in the other room.”

‘The other room’ turns out to be a room Castiel has never set foot in. They walk for a while, through the courtyard, past the dining hall and so many bedrooms and showrooms Castiel can’t keep count. After about five minutes and two flights of stairs, Crowley leads them into a space that looks as though it’s designed for training horses. Even with the whole clothes-less thing in mind, Castiel can’t imagine what half of this stuff is for. Or any, now that he thinks about it. Some of it, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know.

“Robe off, hang it by the door.” Castiel slips the silk from his shoulders and greets the nip of air with a raised head. He turns and, sure enough, notices a hook just beside the door which he hangs the robe delicately on. “Come here and kneel down,” Castiel moves. “No, on this cushion.”

Crowley turns then, leaving Castiel knelt in the exact centre of the room, legs tucked neatly under him, out of the way. He doesn’t enjoy being naked, but he got used to it after his first few months. Whenever he misbehaved, he’d been forced to deal without clothes, one day for every misstep and even in the winter, he would simply freeze. He learned quickly, that was for sure. People had stared and laughed and pointed, and even that was enough to grovel to Naomi for penance. He thought he knew humiliation before he came here but they taught him differently. They’d knocked him so far down, he never thought he’d look anyone in the eye again, and they rebuilt him how they saw fit. So he sits perfectly still with his back straight, his eyes forwards, his legs a fist width apart and his chin up. The perfect seraph, if he may say so himself.

“Honestly, I’m surprised Naomi didn’t start you off earlier. She must still like the innocence in you, thinks you’ll sell well like it. Alas, you won’t be completely naïve. She can’t have you crying in the bed now, can she?”

Castiel isn’t sure if he’s supposed to answer, so he keeps his mouth shut. When Crowley comes back, he stands before Castiel, just slightly too close for him to glance up subtly and see what the man’s holding, so he resigns to looking at the Crowley’s thighs. He’d rather see what was coming.

“Have you ever tried anything with yourself?” Crowley asks, and then he’s moving, leaving Castiel’s view before dragging a chair over and perching it a few metres away. Now Castiel can see exactly what he’s holding, but it turns out to be useless. A simple, black bag is perched on Crowley’s lap.

“Sir?” Castiel asks.

“Have you ever touched yourself, you know, like Meg touches you?”

Castiel is surprised. He’s not allowed to. “I’m not allowed, sir.”

Crowley just lifts his eyes to the ceiling and rolls his fingers in the air impatiently. “Yes, Castiel, but before that. Before you were here. Did you ever touch yourself?”

“No, sir,” Castiel whispers, and even though he’s telling the truth, he isn’t sure what Crowley wants to hear.

He sighs. “This is gonna take a while, isn’t it?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, but his interest is peaked when Crowley’s hand disappears into the bag and re-emerges holding something plastic, oddly shaped and just about palm size. It’s relatively thin in shape but flares in the middle with what looks like a finger sized ring at one end. It’s pink.

“You know what this is?”

Castiel shakes his head before remembering himself and answering, “No, sir.”

Crowley sighs and groans. “I’m going to have to do everything here, aren’t I?”

Castiel fidgets. He has no idea what this new contraption is for, but if it requires him to be naked, he’s pretty sure he’s not going to like it.

“Get up and go and grab that ottoman over there,” Crowley orders, and Castiel all but leaps up to obey. He drags the stool type thing over and places it just before Crowley. “Closer.” Castiel does. “Good. No I want you to mount it, facing the wall.”

“Sir?”

“It’s not hard Castiel, lie down on the goddamn thing with your ass facing me.” At the harsh tone, Castiel hurries, and he’s barely settled on it before Crowley’s pushing his thighs apart with his leather shoe. Castiel mewls. “Good. Now, this will probably hurt, but you have to relax, okay, and then it won’t be as bad.”

Castiel wonders what he looks like. Completely naked to the elements of the room, spread-eagled on some ottoman, thighs apart and ass on display for Crowley to see. With his arms like this, though, he bets his tattoo looks good. The wings will be splayed and he’ll look like-

“Ah!”

Something cold, wet and hard nudges at him, pushing at his stubborn hole and Castiel instinctively jerks away. What the hell is happening?

“What did I say about relaxing?” Crowley’s hand lands on the small of Castiel’s back, probably just at the base of his tattoo. It’s cold and wet and Castiel realises what was just pushing against him. He starts to feel sick.

“Sir…” he tries, but Crowley’s already back to where he was, finger nudging into Castiel until he can feel the second joint and then all four knuckles knock against his cheek. It feels weird, just toeing painful, but not too bad. Castiel can deal with this. He’ll have to deal with this, if he’s going to have someone’s _penis_ up there…The thought makes his vision fuzz.

“Sir, why are you doing this?” Castiel asks, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to relax. When he clenches, it hurts more.

“You can still form sentences, good on you, angel,” Crowley says, a chuckle in his voice. “You’ve got to be prepared, Castiel. And you’ll still be a virgin with a plug nestled up there, don’t you worry.”

A plug. Balthazar's mentioned one before, when he was trying to freak Samandriel out. And now the plastic thing makes sense.

When another finger joins the first, it’s not so bad. It’s not particularly pleasant and Castiel’s dick is pretty much ignoring the proceedings, so Castiel can’t see why people love this act so much. Right now, it feels like a medical exam, like the one they gave him his first day here. It’s neither good nor horrendous, though he imagines it could be, if Crowley were any harsher. He’s being surprisingly nice, so far.

“I’ll avoid your prostate, Castiel, don’t worry.”

Castiel’s not worried. He has no idea what a prostate is.

The fingers spread and stretch, eliciting a dull ache that never rises to painful. A third finger joins, and Castiel can feel that one, makes a soft keening type noise, but goes silent once the stretches have worked the muscle out. The only noises left in the room are Castiel’s suddenly heavy breathing and the wet squelch of the liquid moving inside his hole.  
And then the fingers are gone and Castiel almost misses them. They were comforting, in a strange little way, even if they were attached to Crowley. Castiel can’t imagine how it would feel if Dean…

 _No._ Dean is gone, for goodness sake. _Four years, Castiel, get over it._ He doesn’t care and he never did. _He's forgotten you._

Maybe it would be nice if Meg gave it a go.

Castiel’s about to move, to get up when he feels the hard plastic, moves with it as it slides into place and sticks when the flared part enters his hole. He stutters on his next few breaths.

“Well, it’s a shame I’m straight, darling, because that is a lovely sight.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to do, where to move. So he stays still, so very still and after a few seconds he can forget it’s there.

“Stand up.”

“What?”

“Stand up. Come on, it’s not that hard. Stand up, Castiel, or I will drag you up.” Crowley pulls at his arm in reiteration of his threat.

Castiel stands up. _Slowly_.

It doesn’t hurt, but it certainly feels strange, foreign, and Castiel isn’t a big fan of doing it.

“Walk over here.”

Castiel blinks over in his direction and takes one tiny step, but even that movement jolts the thing inside him, nudges against his inner walls. He tiptoes over to Crowley with a face like he’s walking on glass. Crowley chuckles when he gets to him.

“Not so bad, right?”

Castiel shakes his head because he doesn’t trust himself to speak right now.

“Good boy. Kneel down.” Castiel does, and a hand meets his back again. The drag of soggy plastic leaving his hole is one hundred percent unpleasant and Castiel whines. He doesn’t like that bit. At _all_.

“You’re done for the day. You did well, Castiel, you may go for lunch.”

Later, when Castiel sits down beside Balthazar, a pale look on his face, he asks the seraphim, “What’s a prostate?”


	3. I've Got Big Balls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long...it was a bitch to write, I'm not gonna lie...but enjoy!!

_“Well I know my baby, If I see her in the dark, I said I know my rider, If I see her in the dark…”_

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean growls, his hand darting out sloppily to grope at the nightstand. He finds the offending phone – still buzzing like a bastard – and shoves it to his ear with a pissed off, “This better be fucking…”

“We found him,” Gabriel’s voice sounds, alive and awake and conscious and it pisses Dean off even more.

“What?”

“We found him. Castiel - Dean, we found him.”

Well, damn.

Dean’s up in about two seconds flat, feet firmly on the ground and a solid hand combing his hair as he sits and thinks it through. And with his friends words (words he doesn’t even know the truth off) he feels jealousy. Bitter, burning _jealousy_ that Gabriel found him first.

“…Dean?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I hear you.” Dena rubs his hand over his eyes and blinks back liquid that is definitely not tears. Why the hell would he be crying, for fuck’s sake? “Where?”

“Garrison Seraphim’s. It’s out in the capital, south-we-”

“South-west, by the harbor, yeah I know. Me and Sammy have looked there, like, five times. Nothing. You sure, man?”

“Anna saw a poster out in town, called Michael first chance she got. They’re selling him off at some huge-scale auction, apparently it’s a big deal. Getting him ready to turn eighteen, I guess.”

Jesus.

“One hell of an eighteenth,” Dean mutters, traipsing up off the bed in hunt of some coffee. Or liquor, whichever grabs him first.

“Tell me about it,” Gabriel says, huffing out a heavy sigh Dean can feel through the phone. “Doesn’t seem real, does it?”

“Four years of relentless searching and we find him on a goddamn poster? Actually, yeah, it does. Fucking typical, actually.” Turns out to be liquor. A half-drunk bottle of whiskey, to be precise. “So, when we leaving?”

“Midday. Michael’s already called, made the plans for one ‘Mr Dean Smith, business exec’. You’re already on the guest list.”

“Midday.” Dean looks at the clock beside the kitchen table. “Yeah, I got a few hours, not a problem. I’ll let Sam know.”

“Okay. Great, man, I’ll see you in a few hours.” Dean nearly hangs up, but Gabriel halts him with, “And, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“We found him.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, closing his eyes with a mouthful of whiskey. “Yeah, we did.”

They hang up in unison and Dean throws the phone down on the kitchen table.

They found him. Four years, three months and five days, they finally find the kid from some poster in the fucking capital. Dean’s not surprised, why would he be? He’s given up his life trying to find this goddamn kid and he ends up being advertised on some street corner. Dean should have been fucking expecting it.

But, hey, they found him. He’s alive, at least, virginity for sale or not.

He wakes Sam up with a pillow to his face.

“What the…Dean!” he cries, though he's already too far into leaping from the bed and tackling his brother until Dean’s back collides with the door to pause in the realisation that it _is_ only his brother. And Dean can’t stop grinning even with Sam’s hands grappling at his tee shirt collar.

“We found him.”

The kid stalls. “…What?”

“Castiel. He’s alive, Sammy, we found him.”

Usually narrowed, hazel eyes widen into huge glowing orbs and he takes a giant step back. “No fucking way,” he breathes.

“Watch the tongue, dumbass,” Dean chastises and Sam has the decency to roll his eyes and sock Dean in the chest. “But, yeah. We’re setting off at twelve so make sure you’re ready. We found him, Sammy.”

“How?”

“Anna called. She was street-walking apparently, found a poster with his mug on and called Michael. I just got off the phone with Gabe.”

“Holy crap,” he says, releasing Dean altogether and stepping away, a hand running over his ridiculously bed-headed hair.

“Yeah. Holy crap.”

\----

The time Castiel wears the plug increases over the weeks. Crowley had it in him for minutes at a time in the beginning, moving onward and upwards to hours and days, until finally now Castiel wears it at night.

It’s not much of a problem. The one he dons at night-time is thin, the same one as that first day, but when Castiel meets Crowley up in that room after breakfast, he takes out one and puts in another; thicker and wider in girth, Castiel doesn’t particularly enjoy it, but it isn’t completely unpleasant. And once, a week or so ago, when he was traipsing back down the stairs with a particularly large one nestled in, it had hit against something inside of him and it felt good. Like, _really_ good, and Castiel’s pretty sure he may have become erect if the feeling stayed around for much longer. But it didn’t, and Castiel went back to trying to ignore it.

He’s stopped being sore now, for which he is immensely grateful. Even if the whole thing has seemed to amp up Balthazar and Meg’s teasing.

“How does it feel, Castiel?”

Castiel shuffles on his knees and feels it out.

“Alright, I think, sir,” he says, looking up at Crowley in his armchair throne. They’ve taken to commencing these lessons in his own study, apparently for convenience reasons, but Castiel doesn’t care. The man’s not allowed to try anything, and Castiel would happily tell Naomi if he did.

“Does it feel good?” Crowley asks, kicking one leg to cross over the other.

“Not particularly, sir. Should it?”

He laughs lowly and shakes his head in subtle bewilderment. Castiel’s pretty used to it by now, though, so he keeps up his genuinely curious gaze.

“Generally, darling, yes, it should. But, whatever, I suppose it’s for the best. If you did enjoy it every time, you’d have to wear a cock-ring, and I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy that. Even if our dear Meg would.”

Castiel makes a mental note to ask Balthazar what a “cock-ring” is.

“You still haven’t touched yourself, have you Castiel?” he asks, and Castiel shakes his head. “I want the truth, remember.”

“No, sir, I haven’t, I promise.”

“Good boy. See to it you don’t.” Crowley stands up from his chair and crosses over the short distance between them, to where Castiel kneels obediently on his plush rug. Once only a metre stands between them he drops gently to his haunches and from so close a distance Castiel can hear one of his knees click. Castiel peers coyly up into his eyes. He smirks. “You are something, aren’t you little one?” Castiel blinks. “And it didn’t take long to brake you either, did it, Castiel? You were simply itching to just roll over and become that eager little bitch you so enjoy playing, isn’t that right? Answer me.”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel hastes, shifting on his hips under the scrutiny.

“Then do it. Play the part you were assigned, Castiel, _become_ the slut, little one.”

Castiel just stares up at him for a long few seconds, his brow shifting lower in confusion until it all finally just dawns. _Play the part_. So he does. His back straightens perfectly and his neck becomes a ruler line of pale flesh and slender muscle, holding his chin at a flawless right angle with his lips parted just so and his eyes are perfectly modest as they observe the man. He spreads his thighs until they no longer touch and his hands fold loosely over his stomach; with a flick to his shoulder so perfectly set out his robe slips from the inked skin there and leaves it bare to the world. And then even Castiel knows he’s perfect.

Crowley whistles lowly with raised eyebrows and Castiel all but shines inside. He fucking hates it with every single inch of his being, but he feels good. He’s doing right by his people and that feels really good.

“Well, look at you, all ready and willing.” Crowley smiles in an almost predatory fashion before lifting smoothly back up to standing and petting down his suit trousers. Castiel follows with his eyes. “Looks like we have nothing to worry about with you, hmm? You’ll come when we call, won’t you? Literally.”

Castiel feels his muscles pushing him to shift awkwardly with the rod still inside of him but he shoves down on that instinct and blinks it away. Seraphims do not shift from presenting. They’re perfect, marble statues to be admired and adored without complaint or thought. Castiel is perfect.

“You may stand, Cas. How are you prepared for this evening?” he asks, rising and returning to the leather. Castiel follows him in standing, his legs together and his head bowed slightly in respect.

“Prepared, sir?” he asks.

“Yes, Castiel, prepared. Please tell me you’ve at least tried on that suit.”

“Yes sir, Meg fitted me with it this morning. It fits well, I think.” It does. Stupid thing it is.

“I’m sure, Castiel. And you remember what Naomi’s told you, correct? How you will act?”

“Yes sir, I remember.”

“You don’t sound very enthralled, little bird. Is there something wrong?”

Of course there’s something wrong, there’s so many things wrong; about tonight, about Castiel’s duties, about the pressure suddenly pouring onto his shoulders…he hates being the centre of attention in the dining hall, let alone in front of over a hundred people.

“I’m…nervous, sir,” he says, figuring that Crowley would probably know if he lied. “I don’t enjoy so much attention.”

“You’re a demure little thing, aren’t you? Naomi’s about to be a very rich woman.”

Castiel just hums.

 

The suit fits like a second skin, but it doesn’t prevent Castiel fidgeting the whole way there in the back seat of the limo. He feels like the rare red crayon in a classroom of pre-schoolers; Samandriel looks as though he’s about to throw up his lunch and Hester couldn’t appear more like a primped up duck if she tried. She does look beautiful though, so Castiel can’t really blame her.

“Stop your incessant fidgeting, Castiel, really,” Naomi hisses, whacking at his hand with her clutch. He halts immediately and returns his eyes to the window, battling with his own reflection at the glare that’s very much insisting to make an appearance on his face.

“You look like you’ve just seen Meg naked, kiddo,” Balthazar jokes, nudging his foot at Samandriel, who just turns sharply his way as if startled and smiles crookedly. Castiel would feel bad if he wasn’t in the exact same position.

They’d all three been sat down and informed over a month ago now. Today and tonight will be their debut; the annual displaying of seraph’s from all over the city up for auction or bid. It’s rare that Garrison’s offering three all in one year, both Meg and Balthazar were alone during their own, and Castiel feels immensely grateful that it isn’t the same case with him. He would be in the same state as Samandriel if he had to do this all alone.

Naomi had explained; they will all file in as some great ceremony, all of the Seraph facilities one by one to display their livestock; they will all be presented individually with photographs taken of them weeks ago on some huge screen for everyone to see; they will travel the room with irritating small talk and Castiel will have to play again.

He just hopes beyond anything that by some fluke Anna might be there.

And then the vehicle slows down and stops altogether, Crowley’s hand on his shoulder and urging him out of the open door…”Show time.” Castiel’s heart starts beating in violent earnest.

They weren’t joking about the ceremony. There’re cameras in Castiel’s face from every which way, people cat-calling and cooing at them all as they walk the red carpet, Crowley’s hand at his back the whole way there. And now Castiel wants to vomit. Every single face in the vicinity is clear as a bell as it watches him, following him moving as he walks through the grand doors and enters the ballroom to even more intrigued people.

Castiel watches Hester grin at the attention.

Castiel allows everything occurring to just pass him by in a blur; Crowley’s sturdy presence disappearing and Meg kissing his cheek as a goodbye; another older woman leading them up a set of grand stairs to a stage where they’re led to sit side by side, perfect little statues. Castiel just smiles when he feels like he must and follows his blatant directions. The hard part comes later.

There’s about forty of them altogether. Twenty odd facilities, forty seraph’s.

“Welcome all,” the old lady says into the microphone, once every seraph is perched like their very own brand of baby bird in the raised rows of seats on the stage. A hush falls over the gold-encrusted room and every suit-clad man or diamond emblazoned woman directs their attention to her. “As we all know, this is a very special occasion. The debuting ceremony of our newest Seraph’s!” A round of applause echoes from the chandeliers. “As always, our beautiful little seventeen years olds will be presented in company order, oldest first.”

Castiel’s pretty sure she continues her speech for a few more minutes, but he’s zoned out. God, he detests things like this. Ever since he was a child at school, the idea of speaking in front of his classmates or even gaining their collective attention ran shivers down his spine. _You’re acting, Castiel. Play the game._ Right. Of course, play the game, none of this is real, not anymore. Castiel will be the thing of people’s desires because that is his duty, _nothing more_. So it shouldn’t be a problem; the real dorky, geeky Castiel no longer exists and now this beautiful being has taken over. It’s an unfair trade, really.

“Cassy of Eden,” the lady says, and for two quick, terrifying seconds, Castiel thinks she means him, before a young, dark skinned girl waltzes to the front, twirls her dress and curtseys for the crowd. Castiel isn’t that good of an actor, he’s sure. A few claps ensue and one man blows a wolf whistle but other than that, it’s a relatively dull greeting. The pictures are shown, she pats down her pastel pink dress and after two or so minutes, she’s told to sit back down again.

This happens three more times before, “Hester of Garrison,” is called and Castiel suddenly adopts the real fear of vomiting in front of everyone. He’s next. Hester’s birthday is in a month’s time, Castiel’s a few days beyond that and Samandriel next year sometime. Castiel’s next.

The two minutes swoop by like nothing and in seconds, he hears, “Castiel of Garrison,” and everything just evaporates.

\----

Dean’s half way through tugging at his dumb collar and tie when he hears the name, and when he does there’s no helping the weird little jolt that rushes his body, his head lifting up like a magnet.

And then there he is.

 _Fuck_. Where the hell did that dorky little kid go? The one with the crush on him, who hated sports and religiously read stupidly hard books out in the fields behind their little village; the one with crazy messy hair that used to drive his mom up the wall until she finally relented and slicked a wet palm to try and tame it to no success; Gabriel’s weirdo kid brother. One of Dean’s best friends, Sam’s for sure.

But this dude…this teenager isn’t dorky. He isn’t so scrawny and he doesn’t have wild bed hair anymore, he’s wearing a wonderful suit that clings in all the right places and that shade of shirt matches his stunning eyes perfectly, Dean can practically see them glowing all the way from down here…in essence, the kid got hot. And as fucked up as it might be, Dean could totally get behind bidding on him.

He walks delicately over to the front of the stage and his eyes scan over the crowd, Dean can see him gulp. He doesn’t wink or bow or display anything fancy, he just stands there with his head held high and it is one of the most arousing scenes Dean’s ever witnessed. How the hell does that work?

The pictures displayed on the wall behind him look more candid than most of the others. And sure, embedded in there are more graphic images, displaying Castiel’s perfectly nude body; but mostly it’s just him. Looking all perfect like, his eyes drifting into the beyond, one of him smiling and laughing, the next his head nestled in a book, sat on a bench beside some cherry blossom. It’s a good selection, Dean thinks.

It disturbs him, how much he’s apparently okay with all of this. He’s here to _save_ Cas, to bring him back to his family, back to where he belongs. But right now all Dean’s thinking is the bid he’s gonna place, the amount of money he’d really be willing to spend with even one night with this magnificent specimen. It’s a high number and he feels sick because of it. He’s already being sucked into their messed up little games.

 _Castiel didn’t choose this_ , his mind supplies. Castiel was kidnapped from his home, trussed up like a pig to the slaughter, thrown into a van and forced to sell himself for money. This isn’t fair, this is fucked up. And now Dean’s found him, he _will_ save him. If it’s the last fucking thing he does; Castiel deserves the world and Dean’s gonna give it to him, one way or another.

So Dean turns away from the stupid fucking pictures and focuses his eyes on the boy before him. _I will save you, Cas. We all will._

It seems like hours before the last kid’s presented and the seraphs are free to disperse and the second they do, Dean goes off to find Naomi. Get this ball rolling.

“Ah, Mr Smith,” she greets, reaching over to take his hand. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Yeah, me too. Great selection this year, huh?”

“It is particularly good this year, I’ll admit. But even _you_ have to admit, Garrison has done a fine job.”

Dean forces a laugh at the woman who ruined Castiel’s life.

“Yeah, I’ll give you that one. Especially…Cas, something? The black haired lad.”

“Castiel,” she smiles knowingly. “Yes, I believe he’ll be popular this turn. We’ve had a few enquiries already, actually.”

“Well, then I officially offer mine. He’s a stunner, that’s for sure.”

“Well, maybe you’d enjoy meeting him?” And _there_ the coin drops. Dean smiles and nods his approval, so she smiles back with dollar signs in her eyes and takes Dean’s arm as a guide, all the way over through the crowd to a black clad back. “Crowley?”

A man turns round, a relatively squat looking, beady eyes type of guy. Dean doesn’t like him already.

“Naomi.” He smiles tightly.

“This is Mr Dean Smith, he’s interested in our Castiel.”

“Mr Smith,” he says, offering Dean a hand which he regretfully takes. “Castiel. Good choice, if I may say so myself. A real _natural_ submissive, that one.”

Dean wants to growl at him and rip his dumbass head off, he might have done if the thought of Castiel on his knees for him wasn’t so distracting…Fucking nice Dean, you piece of shit.

“He’s with Meg, Naomi. Over by the buffet.”

“Thank you, Crowley. This way, Dean, if you’ll please.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Crowley,” Dean says, already moving off with Naomi.

“Likewise, Dean, likewise.”

It turns out, Cas’ grown since the last time they were both on the same level. He’s maybe three, four inches from Dean’s height when Dean advances on his own black back, slightly hunched as he listens to a blonde man talk animatedly to another seraph, the adorable one with the brown hair that went up just after Cas. He looks terrified. Poor kid; Dean’d bet he’s from some outside village too, dragged in like Cas was. Maybe they can rescue this one as well.

“Castiel,” Naomi says, and then he’s moving, four fucking years and the kid’s moving to look at Dean, he’s gonna know Dean’s gonna save him and they didn’t just abandon him all those years ago…And when those blue eyes turn, widen like a deer’s in the headlight, Dean offers a giant grin. “This is Mr Dean Smith. He’s interested in you.”

“Evening, Castiel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and kudos!!! If you liked it, obviously :D


	4. And What's My Master Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sooooo sorry this took so long!! I seriously have no excuse, just please except my deepest condolences :)
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy!!!

By the time they’re instructed to diverse back into the crowd, Castiel’s too far out of it to do anything but follow Samandriel’s hurriedly retreating form back to their little flock. Hester follows them with a litany of complaints that they should be mingling, but neither boy pays her any attention and by the time Meg sets her sights on him, he’s absolutely one hundred percent ready to piss off back home.

He doesn’t mention that out loud of course.

“Racy pic’s, Clarence, didn’t know you had it in you,” Meg grins, reaching out a carefully manicured hand to pat down his hair instead of the usual rub she frequently awards him.  
He rolls his eyes.

“Hmph,” is all he offers.

Okay, so that wasn’t quite as terrible as he’d initially imagined. Sure, his heart still feels like it could very well shove it’s way straight through his chest, but he’s still breathing, so that’s a good sign, right? Now all they have to get through is the whole ‘social-selling-yourself’ thing and they’re on a homerun.

Castiel wonders where Naomi is for a split second before realising she’s probably already got the whole selling ball rolling pretty smoothly and any second now she’ll pounce and drag one of them away (Hester, probably, she’ll be the most eager to comply) to make use of the skills racked into their brains over the last four years. Joy. Because he’s looking forward to _that_.

With the white noise of one of Balthazar’s tales filling in the background, Castiel considers what the next few weeks are going to mean for him. More socializing, inevitably. Leering stares and lewd winks are also pretty unavoidable, but Castiel only has to get through them, past his birthday and the inevitable ‘mating’ and then…he can have a break?

Maybe.

Hopefully.

God, what if someone buys him? And not just for the night like usual, but actually _buys_ him, like, forever? He’s heard stories of seraphim’s like that. Like pets kept in the house with shock collars and no clothes sleeping in baskets at their owner’s bedside—it’s pretty damn rare, but it does happen. Jesus Christ, Castiel can’t do that. He won’t. He _won’t_.

Castiel snaps his eyes up to Balthazar and forces his brain to listen to him instead and ignore these brand spanking new fears. Just when he thinks one thing’s finally over, another just rears its head and demands his unflinching apprehension…

Castiel knows Naomi’s behind him because he watches Hester’s gaze move up from her suddenly materialized, non-alcoholic cocktail glass and her spine straighten in an obedience only ever really awarded to the woman. Castiel lengthens his, too, on instinct.

“Castiel,” she says, and he turns obediently around.

And he stops.

And everything else in the whole room, in this whole goddamn _building_ , freezes into a blistering snowstorm that sends remembered chills down Castiel’s back because…  
 _No_.

No it’s fucking _not_ , it’s not, because Dean Winchester isn’t…he’s not…

Only he is, and he’s standing right in front of him. Oh good god, this can’t be happening.

And suddenly Castiel’s not a seraph anymore. He’s not a seventeen year old boy with his virginity on the market; he’s a thirteen year old kid being left behind by his best friends in the whole world and watching this guy leave him - leave him to _these people_.

Dean doesn’t belong here, not in this place.

Castiel figured that out three years, eleven months and seven days ago, because that was when he gave up and inescapably became the seventeen year old boy with his virginity on the market. Because no one cared enough about him to do shit all. Not Dean. _Especially_ not Dean.

What the hell is he doing here?

Who the hell does he think he is, charging about grinning like some Cheshire cat down at Castiel as though he has some sort of _right_ …

Fuck. What if he’s here to bid? Not that that would be surprising, Castiel doesn’t know Dean anymore; he sure as hell doesn’t know this guy, the one in the designer tux and Armani shoes.

“This is Mr Dean Smith. He’s interested in you.”

Oh god, he’s interested in him.

Fuck. He’s going to throw up.

“Evening, Castiel.”

And then that’s it. That’s just _it_ , because everything snaps out of Castiel faster than you can say _‘traitor’_ and he’s bowing his head like that good little seraph; the kind Naomi and Crowley and Balthazar would be proud of and his face is devoid of emotion. Like it should be.

“Hello,” he offers, peering up at _‘Mr Smith’_ through his lashes like he’s supposed to—just catching Naomi’s pleased little smirk in the corner of his eye. Good. Castiel should be relieved to make her happy.

Mr Smith’s brash grin falters slightly and a tiny catch makes itself known at the centre of his brow ( _near that scar he got falling off the wall of Castiel’s school when he was teasing him and took it too far_ ) but swipes itself away again to be replaced with a cocky smirk. Castiel has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

“Mr Smith works in the entertainment business, isn’t that exciting, Castiel?” Naomi prompts, offering him that all too familiar brow raise, before placing a red-nailed hand to Dean’s shoulder and urging him forward, closer to Castiel. He manages against stepping back, but only barely.

He offers a taught, coy little smile. “Very exciting.”

Naomi beams at him.

“Well, we wouldn’t want to impose,” she says, sending a pointed look to the others who scuttle to obey, spanning out and away almost immediately. Meg sends him a wink on her departure. “But don’t take up _all_ of Castiel’s evening, Mr Smith, it’s been a very eventful day, I’m sure he’s eager at the chance to wind down and mingle.”

_‘You’re not the only one interested in him, so don’t take away a potential sale.’_

Mr Smith throws his head back and laughs, nodding in agreement.

“Naomi, I wouldn’t dream of it,” and grins as she walks away, seemingly placated.

“So,” Castiel starts, keeping his eyes locked to _Mr Smith’s_. “The entertainment business.”

But Mr Smith clearly isn’t listening. His eyes (god, green, so _green_ ) switch from frowning down at Castiel in impatient confusion to darting back around them, checking for something or other. Finally he seems happy enough with the situation because he turns towards Castiel more fully and offers him a goofy, apparently relieved grin before shoving his fingers to run smoothly through his combed out hair.

“They’re still watching us so I can’t hug you, but holy fucking shit man, is it good to see you.” He splutters out a giddy laugh. “You look…amazing. How are you?”

Oh god, Castiel can’t do this.

“What are you doing here?”

Dean falters again once greeted with the hostile tone, but, again, he recovers quickly with a sheepish smile.

“Dude, I’m here to save you.”

Castiel licks his lips and coughs into his fist slightly, distracting himself. “From what?”

Confused, offended. “What…? Cas, man, I’m gonna get you out, we’re gonna save you, I swear, dude…”

“Mr Smith…”

“Don’t,” Dean snaps. “Don’t call me that.”

And Castiel fixes him with the steadiest glare he thinks he can get away with Naomi seeing, before repeating steadily, “ _Mr Smith_. Why are you here?” But Cas halts him when he rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, “And don’t say to _save_ me, because that’s not an option. So I’ll ask you again. Why are you here? Do you want to bid?”

“Fuck Cas…look, man, I get you’re angry and everything, but not even you could enjoy somewhere like this, they’re using you for sex, man, that’s so effed up—”

“ _Not even me_?” Castiel repeats, the words swimming in his head because of _course_ that’s what Dean thinks, he’s saving Castiel from _himself_ , of course he does, because Dean— _Mr Smith_ knows everything now, what a goddamn surprise. Well fuck him.

Fuck. _Him_.

“What? No, shut up, dude, that’s not what I meant—”

“No. Do _not_ tell me to shut up, Dean, you have _no_ idea. You left me and now you think-” he has to take a steadying breath instead of braking down in tears, “-Just because it’s a good time for you, you think you can miraculously save me. Well screw you, Dean. I don’t want you to save me. I don’t want you.”

And when he steps to the side and aim for Crowley, who’s watching them near the stage with a regular finger of scotch in his glass, a strong hand (oh God, that _hand_ ) closes over his bicep and halts him with a squeeze. Shit.

“Cas, please, buddy, this isn’t what this is about, I swear, Anna found—”

Castiel halts his struggle.

“Anna? You know where Anna is, is she okay? Is she here?”

“Is everything alright here?” And for the first time in the last five minutes, Castiel is furious at the notion of Crowley interrupting them and terrified that they’ve been heard.  
On the plus side, Dean releases his arm, however begrudgingly, and steps back out of the way, offering Crowley a forced smile. “Everything’s great,” he says.

Castiel steps into Crowley’s space when it’s offered and turns a subtle sneer at Dean’s slightly bewildered expression, tilting his head to Crowley’s touch to stab it in a bit further. Dean doesn’t belong here. Fuck. Him.

“You don’t mind if I borrow Castiel for a while, do you?” Crowley asks, letting his hand appear around the other side of his waist most likely to just piss Dean off that a touch so very close to his ass is allowed, appreciated and very much accustomed. God, if only Dean knew just how close to Cas’ ass this man has actually been, he wouldn’t be offering saviour then. He’d be sneering in disgust and hightailing it back to Anna. And when he nods and Crowley leads Castiel away, Cas doesn’t look him in the eyes anymore. The shame won’t let him.

\----

Sam picks up on the second ring.

“Dean? Hey, you okay, what’s going on, is everything alright?”

No. No everything is not fucking alright, how the hell’s he gonna do this if the guy they’re trying to save wants shit all to do with them? Crap, this did not going how he was expecting this to go. _Shit_.

“Yeah, everything’s great, I’m on my way back now,” he rallies, flicking the indicator to turn right out of the dumbass-long driveway. “Will you grab Gabe for me?”

“Yeah sure, hang on,” there’s a pause, then Sam talking off the phone, presumably to Gabriel, “Hey, it’s Dean, he wants to talk to you,” before shuffling sounds and Sam speaks to him again. “Dean. Did you see him? Did you talk to him? What was he like?”

Dean sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, Sammy, lemme talk to you when I get back, okay? I’m about twenty minutes away from the house now, I won’t be long. I’ll see you soon, alright?”

Sam echoes his earlier sigh and agrees before handing the phone off to Gabriel, a weighted pause of motion as he exits the room before Dean’s acknowledged with a greeting of, “ _whatthehellhappened_?”

Dean flinches at the onslaught and wearily cracks his neck.

“It’s not great, Gabe.”

“What?! What the hell do you mean, ‘it’s not great’, what the hell happened? Is he okay? God, he’s not hurt is he, did they fucking hurt him?”

“No, no, dude, he looked fine…great, actually,” understatement of the year, “He’s just…I don’t think he’s all that eager on the saving front. He seemed pretty pissed at me, I don’t know.”

“Who gives a shit if he’s pissed; we’re doing this with or without him.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “No shit, man, I get that, but it’d be a hell of a lot easier if we had his go ahead on this whole shebang, don’t you think?” There’s a weighted pause and heavy breathing on the other end of the line, before Dean just huffs and says, “Look, we’ve got months before his auction, don’t we? I’ll get him to come around, don’t worry about it.”

“Dean…”

“Man, I said don’t worry about it. I’ll be back at the house in about ten, we’ll talk then.”

Gabriel sighs with a knackered, “Sure.”

“And Gabe?”

“Mm?”

“He looked real good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, man. He’ll pull through.”

\----

On the ride home, Castiel falls asleep on Meg’s black clad shoulder with Hester’s incessant chirping in the background.

Waking up’s a chore, but once he’s back inside, every ounce of tiredness has left his bones and an electric current of _DeanDeanDeanDean_ has decided to make itself known in the very pit of his being so his trots to his room, hands the suit to a waiting maid and throws on his sleeping shorts and robe to join Meg’s invitation out in the Seraphim’s living room.

He’s never been allowed in here before, but it’s nice, so he’s pleased.

By the time Castiel shuffles in (with the absolute knowledge of Naomi and Crowley’s retiring) the music channel usually reserved as background noise in the dining room plays softly in the background, casting a pale light over the room from the television and illuminating Samandriel’s slumbering form curled around Balthazar in an armchair. Balthazar’s hand has taken to idly running it’s fingers through the Seraph’s hair, but he salutes it to Cas when he enters and he offers a small wave back.

He wastes no time in stepping over Hester’s sprawled out, grinning form and manoeuvring himself over to a pajama’d Meg reclining in the couch. Tucking himself to her side should probably be more pathetic than he considers it right now, but he honestly couldn’t care less.

He fingertips start at his knee.

“That. Was. Awesome.” Hester flips over, her halo of blonde hair flopping itself over her face until she shoves it back with one hand and reveals the giddy expression she aims at Castiel.

A non-committing, “Mmm,” is his returning offer.

Balthazar snorts though.

“I think it as a little too much for some people,” he says, motioning at the unconscious figure in his lap. As if on cue, Samandriel’s body sucks in a few deep breaths and lets them go at once, nuzzling his face deeper in the crevice between leather armchair and silk pyjama top. Balthazar chuckles and thumbs at his flushed face. “My point exactly.”

“Poor, Sammy,” Hester says sarcastically.

Oh, god. Sammy. Dean’s Sammy, baby Sammy safe with Castiel’s family instead of him…

Really, Cas?

Castiel’s throat makes a soft groaning sound at the thought before he can even consider giving it consent to do so, and Meg laughs into the top of his head. Cas rolls his eyes and slides down her body, until his legs are out of her reach and he’s resting his head on her lap. Seconds later, his robe is untied and long enough fingernails are stroking their way over his bare stomach. He twitches at the sensitive skin, but otherwise doesn’t complain.

“And what do you think about tonight, huh, Cas?” she asks, her other hand finding solace in his hair and mussing it like she’s supposed to.

“Yeah, what about…Mr Smith?” Hester grins, sitting up. “He was totally hot, d’you reckon he’ll bid?”

The groan escapes again and Castiel clenches his jaw shut on it, forcing it down and away and fucking buried far from the dumb _Winchester’s_. Smith. Whatever.

“Aw, what, you don’t like ‘em pretty?” Meg teases, tugging at the shorter hair at Castiel’s temple. “You want a grizzly daddy type, don’t you, huh? Like that bearded guy in the fishing business, the one that kept whacking your arm,” she chuckles at the memory, but Castiel’s cheeks heat at the phantom fear he felt at the idea of that giant taking him. “You wanna take a ride in his boat, Clarence?”

“No,” he growls, hauling himself into sitting so he can get a better view at her reaction, and deem Balthazar’s as well.

He clears his throat before he asks the question busting up his mind. “You know…you know after the auction?” They both nod, seemingly realising this question’s for them. Castiel’s voice is quiet when he says, “What if someone buys us? Outside of Garrison, I mean. What if they make us into…a pet? Or a brothel buys us or another house or—”

“Clarence,” Meg says, her voice tilting in a seriousness Castiel absolutely detests being there. She tugs him back to her lap, probably so he doesn’t catch the quick glance she shoots at Balthazar (he does anyway) and this time both her hands make room in his hair, brushing it rhythmically from his face. “Someone’s got to be real freaking interested in you if they’re willing to pay Naomi’s selling price, trust me. For you, all three of you, actually, it ain’t gonna be cheap, trust me. Besides, who says I’m willing to let you go, huh?” And her hand moves to cup his ass beneath the shorts, but Cas doesn’t care.

Her words have little effect on the turmoil in his chest. Crowley’s already said (multiple times, actually) that Naomi will make a lot of money from him, and after tonight, Castiel’s inclined to believe him.

Alastair certainly seemed willing to pay. He seemed willing to _buy_ , and that?

That’s scarier than any ghost coming back into existence and saying, “Evening, Castiel.”


	5. Son of a Son of a Sailor

Castiel has officially decided: he hates polo shirts. Pretentious, dumbass things they are. Furthermore: he hates wearing them.

“Oh, what?” Meg teases, threading the collar of the royal blue one currently encasing his tensed up torso through her manicured fingers. “I think you look cute. _Adorable_ , even,” she drawls, letting the words lick themselves over Castiel’s ear. He shivers at the sensation and bats her off, half-heartedly.

“I’m sure you do,” he mutters, looking down at the offending thing and picking specks off the denim of his grey jeans. At least he’s not forced into chinos, is all he’ll say. Poor Samandriel. “We would have to be the only house on the harbour, wouldn’t we?” He’s not whining. He’s _not_.

“You kidding me?” Meg says, leaning back against one measly little railing and folding her arms over her navy-clad chest, crossing her legs one over the other beneath the striped fabric of her floor-length skirt. At least Castiel can take some solace in the knowledge that she’s probably just as uncomfortable as he is. “The witch rakes in more money with this little stunt every year than some of the auctions. It’s the perfect ploy.”

“Yes, she most certainly does.”

Castiel jolts at the exact same second Meg tilts her chin at the intruding Naomi, both lengthening their spines when they catch sight of her in all her mint green glory. It’s unsettling, seeing her out of the suit. Castiel hates it as much as he does her in it.

“Shoo, Meg,” she says, flicking her fingers in the direction of the cabin she just left. “Castiel and I need to have a little chat before this afternoon’s…proceedings.”

Uh-oh. That most certainly cannot be good. Castiel watches Meg waltz off with the same sense of dreaded finality he felt that day everyone left him…( _not Dean, we’re not thinking about Dean_ ).

“Ma’am,” Castiel greets dutifully, bowing his head forwards and allowing that stray piece of hair to fall across his forehead because he knows she likes—

She sighs half-heartedly and pushes it out the way with the tips of her fingers. Yes. She’s done it since his first week under her and it’s one sure fire way to get her on his side, whether he appreciates her there or not.

“Castiel. You look nervous,” she says, fiddling minutely with the buttons of his shirt—undoing one more and tugging the fabric open to reveal another small stretch of alabaster skin. She hums before taking her clawed hands back to herself and looking up at him expectantly.

“I’m fine, thank you, Naomi,” he replies shortly, following her lead and looking out from the stern of the yacht, over the stretch of water opposite the docks—crystal clear and blue, _so_ blue, perfect and…

“You know the game, don’t you, Castiel?” And that’s a threat if he ever heard one. Of course he knows the game; he’s been playing it since she picked him. He’s only recently learned to master it.

“Of course, ma’am,” he replies. “What would you like me to do?”

She sighs with that wistful smile she sometimes gets when Samandriel mewls for her on his knees; when Castiel bows his head without any sort of nudge or when Meg actually does as she’s told. It’s sickening and Castiel wants Dean to shoot it right the fuck off—no. Shut up.

“You’re the lead today, little boy,” she says, facing him again. “Hester won’t be pleased, but I have a feeling you’ll sell marvellously. She’ll be lucky if the fisherman wants her, the way she keeps flaunting herself like some common whore.” Castiel flinches. It doesn’t do well for anyone to displease Naomi. “No, Castiel, it’s you. I want you demure the whole way through, do you understand?” He nods. “I want them to work for you; I want you to be their challenge. You will swim once they’ve insisted enough; you will dance if they practically beg. But you’ll be shy about it, not like your sister.” She clucks her tongue and shakes her head and Castiel silently fumes over the fact Naomi just called Hester his _sister_ because he only has one of those and she is most certainly not her. She seems to return to the problem at hand then, because she’s raising her eyebrows at him in insistence, and he’s nodding before he can think it through. Right, like he has a choice anyway.

“Of course, Naomi,” he says, smiling slightly in that small way Balthazar always says breaks hearts. She smiles back, so he guesses it works on ice too.

“Good boy,” she says. “You’ll do well.” And then her hand’s on him again, stroking along the strong curve of his jaw and ending at the joint, massaging her thumb there so he parts his lips slightly like he knows she wants. “My God, I am good.”

Then she’s patting his cheek and waltzing away. Castiel bets she looks good crystal blue and blood red…

“What did she want with you?” Hester says where she suddenly stands beside him, her eyes trained after their House Mother like the world belongs there, materializing in the blink of an eye beneath that floaty mint dress.

Castiel sighs when Hester sits huffily down in front of him, somehow taking up the whole of the lounge chair with her ( _“Dolce and Gabbana Castiel, you couldn’t possibly understand”_ ) dress that has knights and horses adorning it. Castiel thinks it looks weird and so does Meg and Balthazar, but they’d never say. Well, to Hester at least.

“She was just reminding me of my place, Hester, nothing important,” he answers swiftly, moving back from the railings and glancing down at his watch. Ugh. ‘ _Dean, Cas, Dean might be here_ _to watch you and laugh and…’_ Shut the fuck up!

“Oh,” she says shortly, bolting up and moving to follow close behind him as he treads towards the cabin. “You’re not still being weird, are you? ‘Cause I thought the last time she did that water thing you learned your lesson. Wouldn’t be surprised if she did it again, to be honest, if you’re behaving like you did.”

Castiel stops moving. Jesus… _Christ_ , why the hell would she bring that up now, he can’t think of that now, he can’t go back to it, she shouldn’t…but they wouldn’t do it again, right? He hasn’t put one toe out of line since back then so there’s no reason for them to touch him like that, he doesn’t remember, he doesn’t think about that as a steadfast rule, shit, shit, shit…

“Aaaand, that’s enough talking for you today,” someone says outside of Castiel’s train of thought, a voice he knows and recognises, female…Anna? Oh God let it be Anna… “Fuck off back to your hole, Hester.” Not Anna. Meg. Fuck, what the hell’s happening to him?

“Meg, something’s…I can’t think—”

“That’s okay, angel, you’re okay. Little girls just can’t keep their traps shut, but you’re stronger than her, right?”

Hands meet with his shoulders and manoeuvre him back the way he came, back into the strong, warm rays of sunlight on the deck, down to sitting on the lounge chair Hester just vacated. It feels distant. It feels _wrong_.

Shit. Of course this happens again today. Typical…oh God. If he…if he messes up today, Naomi might do it again, she’ll do it again and Castiel can’t…he won’t, fuck, please…

“Hey, whoa there, Clarence, what happened to being stronger, huh? Don’t let that little shit get to you, alright? No-one’s hurting you like that again, you hear me? I’m not gonna let ‘em.”

“You held me down,” Castiel reminds her, moving his eyes up slowly so they can meet hers and lock on them, willing her to remember how sorrowful he was when they finally let him up, how that was the first time she ever comforted him and how he can be that again, he _can_.

She blinks and her face changes minutely, twinging slightly against his incessant gaze, but then it’s leaving him again and moving on to something more important.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Balthazar. He wasn’t there, right? ( _Yes he was, you idiot, he was pouring the water_.)

Oh God, oh God, oh God…

“Don’t do that, angel,” Meg says, pulling him standing again and Castiel wishes she’d just make up her mind. “We’ll get you downstairs, okay? Where it’s cooler for a little while before your guests come.”

“Come on, Cassy,” Balthazar says, tugging him away towards the cabin steps by his free hand, leading him down them and all but holding him up on sea-legs that haven’t even felt the sea.

Meg stays in front and they follow her like an apparition, leading the way into the bowls of the ship, deeper until they reach the living room Crowley took the plug out in and Castiel knows he’ll still be in there, and they can’t go where he is, they’ll punish him again if they see him like this on such an important day…

“Oh,” Meg says lightly, stopping in their tracks. “Busted.”

“Quite,” Crowley’s voice comes from beyond Meg’s body, drifting around her, threatening… “Move.”

Meg does. And then Castiel’s bare to him in his black suit (Naomi didn’t stop moaning about it the whole drive here) that finger of scotch cradled lovingly in his grasp where he’s sat opposite them on a couch, reclined like there’s nothing else he should be doing. Castiel, on the other hand, is shaking beneath Balthazar’s shoulder grip and he’s finding it very difficult to breathe.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asks them. Castiel ducks his gaze.

“Hester mentioned the whole,” she cups a hand around her mouth and whispers crudely, “ _water-boarding_ thing just to freak him out, the little shit. She’s just fucking jealous because Naomi wants him at the forefront.” Meg glances back at him and winks, but it doesn’t do much to help this tsunami making itself known in his stomach, his head—Christ, if he didn’t know any better, he’d definitely suspect he’s having a heart attack.

“I’m sorry,” he tries, darting his gaze from one authority figure to the next. “I’ll…I’ll be fine. I _am_ fine, I’m perfectly…” he glances down at hands vibrating through the cutthroat fear. Okay, not fine. “…fine.”

“Mm,” Crowley hums, looking over at him with narrowed eyes. He takes a sip from his glass as he waves his hand at them all; nodding and swallowing before he says, “Leave us. Castiel, come here.”

Castiel makes sure Meg doesn’t leave him without one more desperate, pleading look that she doesn’t tell Naomi or leave him with Crowley long enough for him to hurt anymore. She just winks at him before following Balthazar back up the stairs.

He toes towards Crowley, still shaking, and he kneels at his feet without a second thought because he _can_ be good. They don’t need water and cloths to make him behave anymore, he’s good at it. He can prove it.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says quietly, shifting closer still. “I don’t know…” he peers down at his hands, “I just won’t stop shaking.”

Crowley crooks a finger and motions for him to advance still—until his chin is bare inches from Crowley’s knee and he has few other choices but to rest it demurely on the dark silken fabric. He blinks up at the man and hopes he’s proving himself to a high enough standard.

“I…I won’t be like that again, sir, I promise. You don’t have to do it again. Please?”

“Now I know you’re not really this pathetic, are you, little bird?” he asks, threading his fingers—damp from the glasses condensation—through the messier strands of hair that Balthazar insisted was artfully tousled. “That little girl knows how to get you, doesn’t she?”

“I don’t usually let her,” he insists, because it’s _true_. Hester isn’t opposed to teasing him like it’s her only pastime—she was among the forefronters taunting him when Naomi took his clothes. But Castiel has grown a thicker skin in this new person he’s been built into. It’s just this one. He can’t handle this one. “But…I can’t forget that. It won’t let me.”

Crowley chuckles lightly. “To be fair to you, Castiel, that was the point. And I can at least promise it won’t happen again unless you step out of line. _Enormously_ out of line. And it most certainly won’t be happening anytime soon—at any event such as this one. Naomi can’t have her star seller traumatised before his big debut, can she? God fucking forbid.”

Castiel manages a small smile at that.

“Thank you, sir,” he says, nuzzling closer, dipping lower and urging that hand to scratch along the back of his neck, the same way he does if Castiel’s whining from a particularly gruesome plug, calming him from the pain. He doesn’t hurt so much right now, but he’s pretty sure it will never not be a comfort.

“That’s just fine, beautiful,” he says, and then, “Like what you see?” which Castiel doesn’t understand.

He blinks up at Crowley and finds his attention elsewhere—positioned at someone above Castiel’s head and nearer the door opposite them. And then someone clears his throat from that direction and Castiel wants to throw up all over again.

Oh god, no. _No_.

Castiel’s gaze swings round faster than you can say ‘fuck’ and there he is; stood in the doorway like he’s been caught in the goddamn headlights in his fitted white shirt ( _Jesus, he didn’t stop growing up_ ) and light coloured jeans. He’s also eyeing Castiel like the Seraph’s just grown a fifth head in the last ten seconds.

Castiel gulps and falls onto his flank with a decided thud, shifting further away from this humiliation. This is exactly what he didn’t want Dean to see. This, right here, this pathetic little boy thanking his captives for not torturing him for having his own thoughts and feelings, he knows exactly what Dean and the rest of them will think about that. _Shit_.

“Oh, don’t let this repel you, Mr Smith,” Crowley says, burying his hand into Castiel’s hair. “Poor thing’s just nervous, I’m sure you can understand that?”

He’s toying with Dean, Castiel realises. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

 _Please Dean,_ he begs with his eyes, leaning forwards with his intent, _don’t screw me over. They’ll hurt me, please._

But Dean doesn’t flip out at Crowley and some deep, sadistic part of him is pissed about that. He should be fighting Castiel’s honour, shouldn’t he?

_Of course not, you idiot._

“Of course,” Dean replies, full lips tilting in a wry smile. “I can understand that. Are you okay?”

_He’s talking to you, dummy._

“Uh,” Castiel stumbles, drawing in a deep breath before he can even begin to think about talking back to him. In front of _Crowley_ , for God’s sake. Jesus, what is he even doing here? “Yes, thank you, Mr Smith. I’m much better now.”

He smiles again, the same forced, bitter twist of his lips as before and Crowley chuckles at him, before standing and tapping Castiel’s shoulder for him to follow suit. He stays beside the man and hopes Dean Smith isn’t down here for him.

“Naomi told me you were down here,” he says, shoulders sloping in a practiced nonchalance. He leans casually against the gleaming wall of sturdy glass and keeps smiling, just keeps freaking smiling and it’s _fake_ and _wrong_ , for God’s sake but _still_ …

“You were looking for me?” Castiel says smoothly ( _weakly_ ), daring a small glance through his lashes at Crowley bare inches away. “You’re early, Mr Smith.”

Dean laughs. It sounds like…like early school mornings when he’d bully Castiel into ditching and they’d spend the whole morning throwing pine-cones at Gabriel through the Bakery window—like Sam waddling his way over the ice on Christmas Eve like a baby deer they once spotted through the hedgerow by the Town Hall. Like the past. Like… _wrong_. Wrong, here, out of place and too little too late, Mr Winchester.

Too Late.

“Well,” he says loosely, crooking his elbow as if he expects Castiel to actually _take_ it. “I guess I just couldn’t stay away.”

“Quite,” Crowley agrees from beside him, nudging him a little in urging and sighing too close to his ear for it to be anything but warning. “Well, I’m sure the two of you can find _some_ way to pass the time, hmm?”

Jeese, at least Castiel knows he doesn’t mean that as inappropriate it sounded ( _not allowed anything weird before the auction—end up worse than the water if he did_ ).Gross. Wrong. Too late for that shit with this man.

Castiel thirteen year old self is _screaming_ his protest.

He puts it off for as long as possible but in under ten seconds, Castiel is _there_ next to Dean and he’s touching his warm arm with that miraculously sprung muscle beneath it, that hand too close and too tense. He follows Dean’s lead back to the deck and it must be like walking along connected to a wooden plank. Good. Castiel hopes it’s uncomfortable enough to make him leave ( _with you, with you, Cas_ ). Alone.

“You look too eager, you know. People will get suspicious.” They’re outside now—on the opposite end of the yacht to where he and Meg had positioned themselves little over an hour ago—tucked away just enough in sight to look conspicuous but far enough out to be beyond the range of sound. Castiel had checked. Twice.

“What, I can’t just want to see you?” Dean smiles—real, familiar.

“Not since I was thirteen, no. I thought I told you plainly, Dean. I don’t want you here. Leave.”

Dean just scoffs beneath his breath and rests his ass atop a second railing. They’re at the front of the boat, a good spot when other guests arrive and they won’t have a need to talk. “Always could hold a mean grudge, couldn’t you?”

“You think this is a…” Castiel glares like his whole crappy life depends on it. “Fuck you, Dean. This is not me holding a _grudge_ , I swear to God…this is me pissed that you think I still want anything to do with you. And I told you before; I don’t need _rescuing_. So unless your planning on _bidding_ ,” Castiel scoffs, “Please leave. Preferably within the next twenty minutes so you aren’t forced to swim back, though it doesn’t matter either way to me—”

“Who says I’m not bidding?”

“…What?”

“Who says,” oh God, he’s leaning closer, “I’m not bidding?”

“You aren’t…you _can’t_ …”

“Can to,” he grins, leering too close, so close. “And mark my words, Cas. I very much intend to win.”

“Ah,” Castiel says with a mean nod, averting his eyes because surely the distrust burning in them would ignite Dean? Well, then again… “So you plan on raping me? Wonderful. Good luck to you.”

Yeah, that knocks that smile off, nice and clean.

“Wait a second, what the fuck, Cas?” he says, making a grab for the cuff of Castiel’s short sleeved shirt and tugging it taut, keeping him immobile. “That’s not…”

“You should’ve gotten your rocks off when I was a human being, Dean. Back when I had free will. When I would have been _willing_.”

He pauses again like the wimp he is, that grip bordering on painful and cutting off circulation Castiel will need to shake hands in the next few minutes. He can see Naomi greeting them now; a colourful soiree of freshly dressed men and women filing neatly over the yachts gangplank, jovial laughs and words filling the air with _dread_. Punctual as ever, of course. Never miss the party of the year, bidders or not.

“…and I would never do that to you, I…” But Castiel’s not paying attention, not anymore. He doesn’t care. He _doesn’t_.

*

“Castiel, you must swim with us. You can’t miss out like this, you simply can’t. We won’t allow it.”

It’s a blonde woman—all but yelling at him from floating in the water—a skimpy white bikini stretched across very fake breasts, her husband’s credit card being the one that bought both for her. She’s lounged out beside him now and Castiel doesn’t want to comply to her—more than anything he wants her gone and away and forgetting him because he overheard them about half and hour ago; asking her husband to keep him. _Won’t he look delicious in chains, George? The foot of our bed, I know how you just_ love _getting fucked, so why—_

Castiel had stopped listening then because that was more information than what he needed to hear. He’s pretty sure they fucked later and he’s pretty sure his name was mentioned more than once but what got him was…they want to buy him and keep him. Chain him up like a dog at the foot of their bed and _fuck the husband_ whenever they feel like it. _(Better than them fucking you, right? Maybe. Not if there’s chains involved.)_

But Naomi’s eyeing him from a sunbed in her own swimsuit and sarong, intense gaze meaning enough resistance, _go_.

“Yes,” Castiel smiles, climbing his way softly down to the very end of the stern, cheered on by the crowd of people below him in the crystal blue water—some even groping hands out over his body to help him, though he understand that’s not the only reason they’re touching. His own trunks aren’t exactly very forgiving in themselves. Meg picked them out. She really does like blue. “Alright.”

“Perfect,” the blonde lady says, swimming over to rest her arms on the side. _Go away, lose interest_. “I’m sure you look even better wet.” Oh God, please…

“Always be wet with me, handsome,” it’s the fisherman, muttering in his ear and fucking grinding against his back, Jesus… “Love water, don’t you?”

Castiel turns a couth smile on him because Naomi’s watching, before turning to the water, levelling his arms above his head and diving in, clean and smooth, he knows, because it took him so long to learn. They’re cheering again, when he emerges.

“George, God, baby, I was right, wasn’t I? Even better,” blondie sings, tugging Castiel to her and wrapping her legs about her waist. He has to cling to the side to stop them from going completely and terrifyingly underneath both the boat and the water and Castiel can’t muster up much of an enticing expression when he’s fighting for air. In more ways than one. George, at least, looks bored from where he’s floating, which he supposes is a good thing. Maybe he can talk his wife out of bidding (or buying), or at least put his foot down at the extortionate price. No. He owns an island. That’s not a problem. Oh, _God_.

“Best not drown the poor thing, Blaire,” _Dean_ , Dean says it, paddling up next to them and neatly pulling Blaire to him instead, leaving Castiel to himself and the stares of the twenty other people in the water. He spots Samandriel when he looks away from the scene, up on the deck and talking charmingly to a stern, no-nonsense looking business woman that for all intents and purposes could be Naomi’s sister, but he doesn’t have that usual, timid little dip to the smile he’s awarding her. Castiel’s not sure he’s that good of an actor, either. Huh.

“Oh, you little party pooper, Mr Smith,” Blaire grins, clinging onto Dean’s tanned shoulders (speckled with freckles and tinted red in the sun) instead now, pressing her scarlet lips too close with her husband bare metres away. He’s not even watching her.

“Who me?” Dean grins. He fits in. God, he fits in with these people, what a fucking hypocrite. From the guy who spent a hefty chunk of his childhood putting their City accents on and dancing around in Anna’s winter cloak. Kids will be imitating him now. “Never.”

“Like I always said, Clarence. Blue looks good on you,” and Castiel has never once been so relieved to hear that voice. He turns quickly and smiles at Meg, letting more relief into that one look than he knows he should allow. He doesn’t care.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please, please comment. Kudos if you enjoyed it pleeeasse.


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